The police didn't want me there. The three
officers clustered by the basement steps gave me dirty looks. But there wasn't
much they could do about me being there since my client was the bereaved
husband, Jim Collins. He met me at the door and shook my hand, holding my elbow
with his other hand as he did. I'd met him twice before, once on a case his
brother had hired me for and then again when I did a short investigation that
included his wife's sister. It hardly seemed enough of a rapport for Jim to
call me, of all people, after his wife was found dead in the basement that
morning.

"Bo Fexler, thank you for coming," Jim said.

"Yeah." I'm a female private eye with two
whole years behind me. In spite of my people skills, I've managed to start
building a reputation as a PI. Behind the blond hair and tall, thin body, I've
got brains that I can use.

"Jessica found her," Jim explained,
breathless like he'd just finished a 5K run. While his house was massive, I
didn't think it spanned five kilometers. "She came home to do some laundry.
She doesn't have any classes on Mondays."

"How old is Jessica?" I asked, stalling and
studying Jim.

"She's twenty-two. She's attending classes
at the University of Findlay."

"Where is she now?"

"Living room. She's pretty upset by it.
That's why I hired you."

"To
make sure no one thinks you're behind it."

"What? No! That never even crossed my
mind!" he protested.

I shrugged. "Where's your wife?"

"In the basement. The police already looked
it over. They won't let me down there anymore."

The front door opened again as Jim and I
stopped at the wall of blue bodies at the top of the basement stairs. I looked
to see who had arrived and realized that I had beaten the ambulance.

"Are they doing an autopsy?"

Jim nodded. He glanced at the officers.
"Can I show her?" he requested. He was still breathless. A valid response in
the stress of the moment.

Except that when it comes to death, the
first person I—and any seasoned cop—suspect is the partner: husband, wife,
boyfriend or girlfriend. They're the ones with most motive and most
opportunity. Which meant that even though Jim was my client, I didn't trust him
anymore than I'd trust Jell-o to support even my weight.

"Thanks. I might get grossed out," I
commented with a nod at Verland. I knew him slightly from my days on cold case
at the Findlay PD. He'd always been indifferent towards me, which was better
than the ones who hated me.

"With s'mores around a little campfire," I
quipped, not particularly playful.

Verland led the way down the stairs. The
basement was partially finished. To the left of the stairs was walled-off,
probably an unfinished storage and utility area. To the right was a family room
with what would have once been considered a big screen TV. There was probably a
larger one upstairs.

Cara Collins was covered with black plastic,
but she still sat up at the desk tucked in the nook under the basement stairs.
Verland waited for me to nod, then he pulled the plastic back.

"Gunshot wound to the head. Powder burns on
her scalp here. We're checking the gun for prints."

I stared, fixated, for a moment on the dead
woman's face. Then I turned to the computer screen. "Suicide note?"

"Yeah. It's upstairs."

"Can I check the computer?"

"Yeah—here." Verland handed me one of his
gloves. I put it on and took the mouse. I opened MSWord and checked the last
documents. There was nothing there. No evidence of a suicide note. But there
was something else to try, and I moused around the computer until I pulled up
the temporary file for the suicide note, the last thing written on the
computer.

"Nice job. We were gonna have one of the
tech guys do that," Verland added.

"Doesn't prove anything, though. It was
written last night."

"We don't even know if she wrote it."

"Yeah." I sighed.

"Don't like it, huh?"

I shook my head.

"Between us, Fexler, neither do we. And
didn't like you being called in."

"Look. Whatever I find, whether it supports
him or not, I'll let you know."

"Don't care which side your bread's buttered on. No wonder some people don't
like you." Verland covered Cara again.

"Where's the printer?" I asked.

"Under the desk here."

I bent to take a look at it. It was an
older model laser printer, not unlike the one I used to have. I touched my hand
to it. It was cold. "Anyone touch this?"

"Nope. It was turned off when we got here.
Don't look so surprised, Fexler. We do know how to run an investigation."

Verland called for one of the officers to
bring it down for us. It had been placed into a large evidence bag and sealed.
There were smudges of black on the edges of the page, fingerprints, but they
were too smeared to be of any use.

I scanned the page. It told how, after
finding out that Jim had had an affair with the cute little blond sex-etary at
his office, on top of everything else, Cara didn't have the will to live any
more. Her whole world had fallen apart in the course of a few short months.
The discovery of Jim's affair, her diagnoses of breast cancer, and the loss of
their beloved pug dog Corny, were just too much for her to handle.

"There's toner on the edge," I noted slowly.

"We noticed that."

I reached under the desk and popped the lid
on the printer. Reaching in, I withdrew the toner cartridge. There was an
after-market refill plug on the top. And toner dust. Someone had recently
refilled it. Closing the lid, I turned on the machine and sent a printer test
page through. That page lacked the toner smudges.

"Would you mind letting me ask the
questions? He probably thinks I'm on his side."

Verland nodded slowly. We plodded back up
the stairs and found Jim standing in the corner of the kitchen having a glass of
water.

"Hey, Jim. Did you help your wife fill the
toner before she printed this note?"

"No," Jim answered, shaking his head. His
brow furrowed.

"No?"

"No. I didn't talk much to her at all since
yesterday morning. That was when we buried the dog. She said she didn't want
to talk. She was pretty upset."

"And you didn't help her with the toner?"

"No. I didn't."

"No?"

"I didn't even know it was out," he
maintained.

"What's on your hands?"

"What?" Jim pulled his hands up to study
them, nearly spilling his glass in his haste. Verland came to stand beside me,
hands hooked on his belt. He was intimidating.

"The first page printed after the toner was
filled was the suicide note. There are smudges on the paper, common when a
laser jet is used right after being filled. And there's also toner fingerprints
on the paper, none of them clear enough to be used. You probably thought you
were in the clear. Except, you couldn't get all the toner off your hands. Out
from under your nails. And there's nothing on her hands."

Verland approached Jim. He put a large hand
on Jim's arm. "I think you should come with us. You're under arrest for the
murder of Cara Collins."

Jim glared at me. "You were supposed to be
on my side!" Then, Verland led him outside, telling him the rest of his rights
on the way.